


Reparations

by French Army Syphilis Epidemic 1495 (nagia)



Series: A Thousand Words Of Gilead [1]
Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Handmaid's Tale Fusion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Other, fusion adjusted for canonical relevance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24448858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/French%20Army%20Syphilis%20Epidemic%201495
Summary: The end of the world as Terre d'Ange knew it starts in the warm, sunny south of Aragonia.  Simmering hatred of Carthaginia and Terre d'Ange had brewed there, stewing, and it boils over in the wake of Ysandre de la Courcel's temporary abdication of the throne.Or: an exploration of how Terre d'Ange might become Gilead.
Relationships: Imriel de la Courcel/Sidonie de la Courcel
Series: A Thousand Words Of Gilead [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765822
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Reparations

**Author's Note:**

> _Dead dove: DO NOT EAT_. Seriously. This is an exploration of how Terre d'Ange might become Gilead. Is it sick? Yes. Is it dark? YES. You may now consider yourself warned.
> 
> When I'm scared or frustrated or upset, I write one of two things: fluff or horror. And I'm all out of fluffy feelings, apparently.
> 
> Marked as gen despite containing lots of references to rape and prostitution and Imriel and Sidonie's marriage because this is about the political collapse of a civilization, and focuses on such.

The end of the world as Terre d'Ange knew it starts in the warm, sunny south of Aragonia. Simmering hatred of Carthaginia and Terre d'Ange had brewed there, stewing, and it boils over in the wake of Ysandre de la Courcel's temporary abdication of the throne.

It's not that Sidonie and Imriel don't see that hatred. They do, of course they do; she was born and raised for the throne, and he has both the Shahrizai gifts and the training of Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve. They see it. They understand that it and righteous anger and well-earned resentment are the motive behind the outbursts, the suddenly abandoned negotiations, the demand for more and more capitulation to Aragonia's desires.

They just don't know how deep it goes.

It's Phedre and Ysandre who realize it first, how many compromises Sidonie has made. First they call for a universal rest day for the Servants of Naamah, twice a week. A sensible proposition, one the priesthood welcomes. But then they whittle away at the protections of the Night Court, at its status, deriding, hamstringing at the less seemly desires.

Aragonian ambassadors make demands in the palace. In the streets, Aragonian sailors and clergy and merchants shout, pass out pamphlets, incite mobs that the city guards have to break up.

Bryony closes its doors, sending those adepts Aragonia does not disdain off into clerkships, making them factors, even sending them into exile. Valerian and Mandrake shutter entirely, and those who escape into the provinces or exile are counted lucky. Modest Alyssum trades in a great deal of favor -- except for those who service members of their same sex. Jasmine, too, sees a rise in its business, for who doesn't love sensuality? But not dreamy, mystic Gentian, which the Aragonians call superstition, nor Eglantine's mad genius, which has always been too sharp, too unwilling to stay in its place. Camellia and Cereus pretend nothing is wrong, even as the common rabble demand for more and more acts to be listed among the proscribed. The adepts of Orchis house laugh and laugh, but it is high pitched, manic, the laughter of one who refuses to weep.

The servants of Naamah stop walking the streets, in fear of being attacked. A Caerdicci merchant's son murders an adept of Heliotrope -- a woman, of course -- in the street, screaming the word _putana_ , screaming _adultera_ , screaming _incestus_ at the top of his lungs. It would seem that no one explained to him that the adepts of Heliotrope, who love their patrons as their namesake flower does the sun, who meet their patrons with devotion and adoration, are still servants of Naamah. They might have their hearts broken a thousand times, but still, they find more people to love.

Jasmine House hires guards who stop each patron in the foyer, searching them, after a man flings aqua regia, which dissolves even gold, into the face of an adept. The woman is almost mortally disfigured; a month later, she takes off the bandages and then takes her own life. Balm House -- quiet and gentle, house of healing, house of tolerance -- sends its Second alongside Jasmine's to demand the sailor's life in repayment for the suicide.

"Expensive as she was," one of the Aragonian diplomats, of whom there are more and more in the Palace with each passing month, says, "she was only a whore," and a Camaeline lordling actually _laughs_ at the remark.

A Hellene trader commits heresy upon an adept of Dahlia, contracting her for a private engagement that turns out to be a gathering of several men. The adepts of Dahlia are known for their pride. The Hellene man does not listen when she withdraws consent to the contract.

Imri is proud of her for breaking for the doors, even if she didn't make it. She, too, is lost to suicide in the wake of her pain. For all he might condemn her for weakness, when Darsanga lasted for years, he understands. When Dahlia sends its Second to demand repayment -- in blood or money or both, if she can get them -- Ramiro de Aragon y l'Envers sneers at her. His lip curls in disdain.

"She will leave Our palace," Sidonie says, tonelessly, but she looks to Imri, and he understands. He begins drafting the writ immediately, quill scratching on foolscap.

And then Ramiro quite literally flings his goblet of watered wine across the room, breaking a window, snarling, "Your gods -- gods of whores and catamites, who could not safeguard you in the one matter you say they hold sacred -- are why any of this is even necessary!" His face turns to Imriel de la Courcel no Montreve and his eyes blaze with fury. "Remove him," he snaps. "If he is not king, it can be because he is no real husband of yours."

Joscelin once told him that when one's ward is in danger, no choice any Cassiline has is a good one. He understands it now.

He trusts Sidonie. He knows her brilliance. But he genuinely fears what will happen if he leaves her side. What will her guards allow?

He sets down the quill, rising from his seat.

"Then I am king," he says, softly, firmly, and he can't look away from her as he says the very words that they have always known could crush them both.

Ramiro nods his head, silent, satisfied.

"Escort the princess from the room," Ramiro says. "These matters are too weighty for a woman, are they not? And should she not focus her will on the safe delivery of the heir to Terre d'Ange?"

Her guards, loyal unto death, lead her away without touching her. She doesn't bow her head as she goes, and there is no mistaking the rage on her face, strong brow hooked down. She says nothing, but she looks back at Imri as she passes. He watches her go.

Aragon has won.


End file.
